Дэймон Найт - Orbit 11

Albert is crying. Tears form in the corners of his eyes but are quickly clotted by the dust. “Had it almost paid off,” he whispers. “Only a few months and mine. Paid.”

He is both comic and pathetic. I’ve seen his headlong pratfalls too many times to be amused now. I feel an abstracted sympathy.

“He must be very hot in those tweeds,” says Toby.

“Why not take them off?” suggests Paula.

Toby does not hear. “He must be very hot.”

I look around for the old man. Dieter has left us and is climbing determinedly toward the summit. I wrinkle my nose. Dieter has left behind him a strong scent of decay: the smell of carrion in the sun.

I walk the beach, picking up bits of driftglass. Green and amber shards dry on my palm. The luster swiftly dulls.

Down the beach a low mist has settled over the headland. The morning is still chilly. The sound of the surf overpowers everything except the cries of gulls. The white birds wheel low over a mound on the wet sand.

At first I think it’s a drowned animal washed up. I hurry closer and stop. The dress is striped red and blue; the waves have covered her face with the hem. I gave her the dress a birthday ago. She wore it last night.

I kneel and slowly pull the edge of her dress down. Her eyes are driftless. I let the cloth fall back. Then I am screaming into the surf, but I cannot hear myself.

Paula kisses my forehead, hugs me to her breast, repeats again and again, “It’s all right; you’re dreaming.”

The incantation works. Gradually I stop shaking and stop crying. The base of my skull feels as though someone is tightening a garrote.

Paula’s lips are cool. “Was it the same?”

“It was.”

“Do you know her?”

“Yes. Not her name, but I know her.” The pain begins to subside to its permanent background throb. I think of the girl on the beach and I feel sorrow. There is grief and pain, but no guilt. I should feel guilt.

“You will remember,” says Paula.

I say nothing, but get to my feet. I rub my hands together for warmth. The nights are short but as cold as the days are hot. We have no protection other than our clothing. On the infrequent occasions when we can stand one another, the five of us huddle together for warmth.

“I’m going to try for the top,” I say.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“This is a solo.” Each of us has made many night attempts. Otherwise our only option is sleep. And to sleep is not to rest; only to dream.

I have spent nearly an hour watching Toby plait her black hair. She is meticulous, taking apart and redoing each braid at least a half dozen times. I sit behind her and watch the patterns form.

“Doesn’t it bore you?” I ask.

“That’s got to be the funniest thing anyone’s said since I got to this place.”

I hesitate. “Does it bother you, not dancing?”

She slowly turns to face me. “This is a dance, all of it. The choreography is clumsy. It’s not like I’d do.”

“How would you change?”

“Call an end, for one thing. Start over. Our choreographer is sticking with classical ballet. I hate that. It’s far too structured. I would try something more contemporary.”

I ask one of the questions we seldom use. “Where were you before you came here?”

“Salt Lake City. I was giving up the dance. For three days I’d lain in bed in my apartment staring at a photo of Lar Lubovich I’d tacked on the wall. I could never be that good, so I gave up.”

“That simple?”

She impatiently ravels a braid. “Of course not. You want me to catalog all the sordid details of failure? Would you like a list of non-names I was going to give my miscarried children?”

“I’m sorry.”

“The two most useless words.”

I start to turn away. I am sorry, and I’m confused. Toby catches my elbow.

“Listen,” she says. “I’m wrong. We shouldn’t try to hurt each other.”

But what she means lies fallow in my mind for the next ten thousand climbs.

ESSAY ON WHAT IT’S LIKE HERE. The essay is committed to memory as I have no pen or paper.

I can talk about the anomalies. For example, there is nothing here to eat or drink. We are continually tortured by hunger and thirst. Yet our bodies sweat curing the day and shiver away calories at night. Starvation cannot kill us.

There is the compulsion to climb the dune. Many times I have attempted to walk away at right angles from a direct path to the crest. I step off the meters carefully, my eyes searching for fixed reference points. Inevitably my counting becomes confused and I discover myself struggling toward the top of the dune as always. We climb and we fall back, and that process has become a constant.

Here are the basic questions: Who? Why? How? Where? The answers evade us. Each of us seems to have a pet theory as to the “where.”

Hell has been suggested. So has purgatory. There are less philosophical speculations. Toby was once given a pet turtle for her birthday. She wonders if perhaps we have been abducted by hyperscientific aliens from another planet and imprisoned in something like a giant terrarium.

Dieter refuses to believe this is anything but a plot against him by his enemies among the technocrats.

I can come to no conclusion. I would like to believe this all a dream. But can a dream last this long?

It is time; I detour a few steps to avoid Albert who is squatting beside his latest castle. The sand is too dry to make a good construction material. Spires turn out low and blunted.

“Biggest credit corporations in niggertown,” says Albert, cupping his hands around a minaret. “And no ceiling on interest rates.” He takes his fingers away and the tower collapses. “God bless me, everyone.”

Paula sits crosslegged watching Albert. She tilts her chin and gives me a sphinx look as I pass. I nod and smile.

Dieter is standing at parade rest, one hand shading his eyes from the sun. I nod; he grunts.

Beyond him Toby lies on her belly, puffing. She raises herself on both elbows and shakes her head. Sand sprays from her hair. “Closer,” she says. “Little bit... I think.”

“Good,” I say, “One of us’ll make it today.” I’ve said that many times and I still believe it.

The grade steepens rapidly, almost geometrically. Once, years before, I skied at Sun Valley. One morning the electrical power for the lifts failed. I learned to herring-bone up the hills. I use the same technique now—it’s the only time I’m glad I have size eleven feet. Feet sixty degrees apart, heels in, toes out. One foot ahead, then the other. Dig the inside edges of my feet into the sand. One, then the other.

Repeat.

One day my inevitable fall brings with it an epiphany. The answer is simple beyond belief. I wonder at my obtuseness.

The hummock which was Albert’s sand castle finally stops my fall.

Toby helps me to my feet. I grab her shoulders and whirl her around. Her braids fly out straight. “I’ve got the answer,” I babble. “We’re going to the top.”

“Work together?” says Dieter. “You overwhelm us with your simplicity.”

“I’ll try it,” says Toby. “Why not?”

Paula’s eyes catch the sunlight and are unfathomable. “It will work,” she says quietly.

“Albert?”

Albert is again building a sand castle.

“Albert.”

Paula walks over to him and touches his shoulder. He recoils. He looks up at her, face contorted. “I dreamed, last night. You’re a savage god! you—” His screams compete with the wind.